Lent is my New Year's

I don’t make resolutions, because I find it pointless.  More than that, I get a little annoyed with everyone else’s resolutions, because they inconvenience the good habits of others.  For those disciplined health nuts who hit the gym every morning, every day of the year, it seems unfair that the first week of January they suddenly have to wait in line for a treadmill, knowing that the row of unseasoned novices, smelling of fresh spandex, and struggling to figure out the settings on the machines, aren’t really serious about this new lifestyle.  By mid-February, they will return to their morning Starbucks ritual and everyone else can get back to their own routine, without having to trip over the uncommitted.

So, rather than get in the way of people who really do want to better themselves, I skip the whole shenanigans and wait until I’m truly inspired to do something different.  Over the years of our marriage, my husband and I have often found that inspiration in Lent.  The whole concept of giving something up or taking on something new, in solidarity with Christ and his suffering, burdens me, and commits me spiritually in a way that 1/1/whatever never could.

Making changes in my life for Lent has both those spiritual connotations, and also some practical ones.  Lent is for six weeks.  It is the perfect trial period for life improvement.  You can commit to almost anything for six weeks; it’s a very do-able length of time.  You won’t have to feel like a failure at the end, if you don’t keep it up, because it was only a six week commitment to begin with.  But it is also a long enough time to know by the end whether your changes bring the kind of joy and benefit that makes them worth continuing.  Many valuable life improvements have sprung from the brief six week commitment of Lent.

One year, we gave up coffee creamer.  We lost 5 pounds each.  While we went back to drinking creamer, we do not consume nearly the quantities we did before.  Another year, we gave up TV.  That was hard!  We tried to tape all our shows so we could catch up after Lent, but it really never happened.  It helped us realize how much time TV was consuming, and how unimportant the missed episodes were to our enjoyment of later shows.  We developed a family mantra of, “We will never lament that we missed a TV show because we were out living our real lives.”  We went back to TV, but we also disarmed it from having so much power over us.

This year, we decided to start walking 3-4 times a week.  We mapped out the neighborhood and our walks range from .7-1.5 miles.  We’re slowly working in some running, too, but not pressuring ourselves with it.  Mostly, it’s just about keeping our commitment, to get out there and be in creation while moving our bodies.  I’ve been impressed that so far, we’re actually sticking to it, and I’m noticing some improvement to my stamina and muscle tone.  Who knows, maybe this will be one of those Lenten rituals that actually lasts past Easter?

With every change we make, with every habit we start or break, there is some internal switch that seems to flip – or not flip – in us that determines our outcome.  New Year’s never really flipped that switch for me, but, and I know I may sound a little hokey here, Jesus does.  Whether it’s that “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength (Philippians 4:13),” or “Everything should be done in a way that will bring honor to God because of Jesus Christ (1 Peter 4:11), Lent is a season, where my meager sacrifices and gifts take on a much more meaningful and deeper symbolism than they deserve.  What’s a day without meat, or a cup of coffee without creamer, compared to the unthinkable suffering Jesus endured?  If he did that, the least I can do is commit for six short weeks.

If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To him be the glory and the power forever and ever. Amen. 1 Peter 4:11

I’m gonna be a ballerina?

I don’t always understand God’s ways.  If you’ve read many of my posts, you know that one of the many instances where the logic of God’s wisdom escapes me is when I see that I have a height and build many athletes would enjoy, but none of their coordination, fitness, or finesse, to put those gifts to use.  The middle school cross-country coach was thrilled to see me go out for the team, commenting on how my long legs would be an asset – until he saw me run.  Running hard makes me look like a three-legged giraffe in high heels on gravel.

In the five months since my littlest daughters’ arrival, I’ve been flattered by many observers who’ve noted how quickly I lost the weight.  And dressing strategically, I’ve mostly been able to hide the extra stomach bulge.  It feeds my vanity, but still leaves me missing my regular clothes and saying a little prayer every time I cough or sneeze.  (I’ve always said my figure would look great, if only my chest would stick out further than my stomach, and nursing has given me the dream.)  There are plenty of areas for improvement, but I think I am most limited by my lack of core strength.  When I get stuck in bed, like a cockroach on its back, hopelessly kicking my legs to free them from the covers, and trying to find a way out, I feel sure of this assessment.

When the girls’ ballet school opened up an adult class this fall, the answer to my problems was clear.  I thought back to when my oldest started ballet.  She was a pretty klutzy, head-too-big-for-her-body, toddler.  I noticed within weeks that she had better balance and coordination, and in their years of dance, both my older girls have developed a kind of poise and grace that has always eluded me.  They seem to have an athletic edge, no matter what sport they try, and they never need a hand to get out of bed in the morning.  I think it’s their strong core, and I want one for myself.

So I went to ballet class for the first time in my life last night.  I plie’d and tondu’ed and eschappe’d…it was horrible.  I’m a giant three year old, made of Jello.  No skills, no coordination, and when she had us do the little jumps, there was not a single part of my body that didn’t jiggle.  It’s a very small class, but I still managed to repeatedly bonk into other dancers, and, a short 12 hours later, I’m one giant muscle cramp from head to toe.  If they did a Married with Children episode where Peg Bundy went to ballet class, it couldn’t have been funnier than what I saw in front of me in the mirror last night.

But it was a blast.  I never had so much fun looking like an idiot and getting exercise (funny enough, those two things usually go together for me).  I was relieved when the instructor confirmed for us that we are not expected to participate in the recital next Spring, and, thank you, Lord, there is only a small window in the door for observers.  But I am not going to let my pride get in the way.  I’m going to learn to dance.  I’m going to get my body to actually be fit and not just look fit.  And I’m going to do those little, jiggly jumps until I no longer have to worry about bladder control.

It’s never too late, right?

Shapely and graceful your sandaled feet, and queenly your movement—Your limbs are lithe and elegant, the work of a master artist. Song of Solomon 7:1

My knees are against me

My husband and I have started feeling our age in the last couple of years. When we got a church softball league going last summer, and found ourselves playing teams of twenty-somethings, it was sad how much more nimble they were, and how much more accident prone we were. They celebrated afterward with cold beer in the parking lot. We had to buy beers from the snack bar; the ice from our coolers was for medicinal needs. My brother-in-law is a physical therapist and about ten years younger than us. We were so grateful he joined the team; he handled both the triage and Center Field.

In the latest chapter of my failed athleticism, my husband suggested to me this morning that I should bail on a short, 1 mile, Fun Run I signed up to do next weekend. It’s the ultimate insult to consider myself inadequate to complete 1 stinking mile. My six year old could probably run a mile – in high heels and a party dress.

The doctor cleared me for exercise last week, and, while I have managed to drop the baby-weight, the scale really doesn’t tell the whole story; there is plenty of soft on me. I thought, perhaps, this should be my summer to really pursue a higher degree of fitness. I printed out a 22 week workout plan that is supposed to take you from couch potato to Sprint Tri-athlete. We decided that the swimming part was going to be too complicated for now, childcare wise, but my husband agreed to join me in the biking and running. I even went and purchased shoes that are actually designed for running; they're so uncool looking, I wouldn’t wear them to Walmart. Well, OK, maybe Walmart, but not Target.

We stepped up the workouts last night, and started to jog 2/3 of the time, and walk the other 1/3. I knew it was doing me good, when I started having to push myself to get through the last couple intervals. I kept putting one foot in front of the other and thought, “Oh, yeah, I can do this thing!” Celebrate with me – my half mile split was under ten minutes! I can hear the roar of your chuckles already, but if I can finish the run in less than half an hour next weekend, I get a medal!  And I won’t get run over by the serious runners when they start their race. By the way, if 1 mile is a “fun” run, why would you run further? Is a 2 mile run a “funner” run? A marathon must be hilarious.

I woke up this morning with a pain in my right knee. I looked it up online and have self-diagnose Iliotibial Band Syndrome. It says the first recourse to heal it, is to rest your knee. What? I decide to get out and exercise, and the moment I start feeling some sense of accomplishment, my knee decides it needs rest? This hardly seems fair. Even worse, my husband took my knee’s side in the matter. I feel so betrayed and old.

Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way. Isaiah 35:3

My reflexes are seriously inadequate

We thought it might be fun to get together a coed rec. softball team for the church this summer and it has been an exciting success so far. The roster filled up very quickly, and there have been even more fans there to cheer than there have been players in the dugout. Despite initiating the thing, last night was the first game my husband and I were able to make it to, and it was a hoot! I got on base twice, advanced a runner once, scored once (I think), and did not sustain any serious injuries – all very positive and exciting for me. More than that, probably historic for me, because my reaction time and eye-hand coordination were never polished by athletics or even self-defense. I've taken more balls to the face than anyone I know.

Despite my apparent heroics, I also ducked instead of going after two pop-flies, struck out, missed a catch at second base, and stopped a grounder with my shin, instead of my glove. But before my teammates give in to their frustration with me for my softball failures, I hope they understand the completely sub-grade reflexes I’m relying on. Seriously, I should not be out there on the field without some sort of head protection and body armor.

When my younger daughter was just over a year old, I came into her bedroom after naptime and she charged the crib rail, happy to see me. The rail went down when she hit it, and she plunged head first toward the ground and broke her arm. I was helpless, a mere 8 feet away, to react quickly enough to prevent her fall. Even as I saw the rail go down, my mind ran through a million possibilities of what to do, but she was crying on the floor before I could get to her. My husband, shocked at the cast on our baby, quizzed me later – couldn’t I have dived and caught her?

He was equally shocked by my unresponsiveness when we were hot-tubbing and the lid, precariously propped against the wall behind him, fell down on his head. He thought I should have warned him or something, but I was captured in a web of mental confusion, “Do I jump at it and try to push it back? Do I yell? Will he know why I’m yelling?” Boom. Too late. He’s already seeing stars.

My husband has the reflexes of a frog – he could catch gnats on his tongue. Although I hope he doesn’t try. He can’t understand why I wiff in the batter’s box, despite the slow moving 6-10' arch that you can see coming for a full 30 seconds. He marvels at the way I can chase a fly around the house with the swatter and never successfully take its life. It took me well into my adult years to finally make a stand at Wack-a-Mole. You don’t even want to know what Dodge-ball was like for me at P.E., or how many volleyballs landed on my face, instead of my clasped hands. I had to teach my dog to come to me – I have no hope of catching her if she runs.

Others sometimes get frustrated with my slow reflexes, but I bear the burden cheerfully, despite the injuries. That softball on my shin hurt me far worse than it hurt the team, I can assure you, but I still went out there for the second game, and I’ll be back again, as long as they’ll let me play. I’m just the gal God made me to be, and God definitely didn’t build me for great athletics! That’s OK, it's still fun to play; I just hope no one aims for my head.

Still, God, you are our Father. We're the clay and you're our potter: All of us are what you made us. Isaiah 64:8

I’ve been obsessing about my own mortality

I’m turning 35 this summer. Whether that seems old or young to you probably depends on how much higher or lower your own number is. What I know for sure is that, while there is potentially still a long journey ahead of me, I have also put some long years behind me. I’ve always tried to live intentionally, beginning with the end in mind, you might say. However, lately everything in my life seems to be contriving to bring me repeated consciousness of the fact that living is a terminal condition.

I attended another funeral this morning. A beloved friend from church who was blessed to enjoy a long and fruitful life has gone on to Glory. Another dear friend, not so advanced in years, had emergency surgery to remove her appendix the day after Mother’s Day; thankfully they caught it in time. My younger daughter is graduating from Kindergarten; it seems much too soon. Grandpa is back in the hospital again. A family in our community had two of their three kids die when their minivan was T-boned on a quiet side street we commonly drive down. My older daughter started needing deodorant. All are subtle and not-so-subtle reminders that time moves in only one direction and, sooner or later, that onward march is going to lead all of us to the same outcome.

I’m seeing everything different these last few weeks. Every time I get into a car, I consider the possibility of an accident. When I order French fries, I hear my arteries begging me to stop. I look in the mirror and see the smile lines and sun spots starting, and know that kid at the grocery store isn’t going to keep asking for my I.D. forever.

Some ministers will suggest that from the day we put our faith in Christ, our earthly life is just a hindrance, holding us back from the Glory that awaits us. When I was younger, that was one of my biggest fears; that life quit meaning anything, because accepting Jesus meant longing for the end. Life was just this burdened in-between of trying to spread the Gospel and secure eternity for others.

The Gospel is much fuller to me now than it used to be. While I hope for the eternal Glory my friends are now experiencing, I’m trying really hard to experience Glory each day. Life has these incredible seasons we get to pass through, each a unique gift from God who gives us life. From the beautiful naiveté of childhood, through the discovery of youth, the comfort of finding our identity and vocations, and on into the uncharted future that I hope will bring adventure, accomplishment, and grandkids. God didn’t plan just for the end, God planned for each and every day, each moment, of this Glorious life I get to live.

But even as I dream of this amazing future, I feel burdened right now by the reality that, as Mat Kearney’s song Closer to Love puts it, “we’re all just a phone call from our knees.” Anything can happen at any time to cut short the dreams I hope for, and I feel like, right now, life is just starting to get good. Really good. Good-byes are hard, but I don’t want to live in either denial or in fear of them; they’re part of life, too.  Lately, though, I've been feeling the pinch of their inevitability.

"Show me, O LORD, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth;the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man's life is but a breath. Psalm 39:4-5 

http://apps.facebook.com/ilike/artist/Mat+Kearney/track/Closer+To+Love

An Elliptical is Cheaper Not to Use than a Gym Membership

My neighborhood is teeming with joggers nowadays. Drive attentively, because these spandex-clad women and men are fast-moving and hard-to-spot. You'd probably be better off putting down the window and sniffing them out, because many times they are completely soaked in their own sweat.

It looks like complete misery to me: the pounding impact of the pavement; the heat of the sun; the solitude; the pointless return back to where you started. Aside from the fact that nothing is giving chase, they also aren’t headed to a destination worthy of the effort. I cringe at the thought of having to do extra laundry to wash all those spandex. I’m sure they have to wash them “cold – delicate cycle – non-chlorine bleach – line dry.” And they can’t go back out in public until they’ve spent another half hour taking that extra shower and redoing their hair (which also rules out the possibility they are jogging to a coffee shop or tavern).

It is so easy to be disdainful of the joggers. My biggest gripe with them is that they have mustered something I so thoroughly lack: discipline. I fantasize like everyone else about having ripped abs and a firm bottom. But I think I know down deep that I am just lucky to be average. After having two kids, I realized that I needed to do something different or I was not going to stay “average.” We joined the Y. While my girl was in their preschool, I even managed a dutiful habit of hitting the stair-climber 3 times a week. And I lost – not a pound. Not a pound. Then we moved and the Y wasn’t on our daily path, so after a few months without going there, we made the choice to drop the membership and purchase a second-hand elliptical machine.

Once the elliptical machine is at the foot of your bed, you can no longer claim that your workout is too far out of the way. You have to find other reasons not climb on board and work up a sweat. One of my favorites: my only successful weight loss has come from a concerted effort to eat smaller portions and avoid snacks. That and the occasional cleansing that a good potluck offers (see my post on potlucks).

We’re a pretty active family and I’m not afraid of hard work. But I seem to need the motivation of a project to work on, a destination to hike to, or a game to play. Getting on a machine to run round like a hamster or taking an hour out of my day to beat up my knees so I can say I ran a whole mile doesn’t motivate me. I wish it did. I wish I was disciplined, because I know they’re right and I’m wrong. And when those annoying jogger-people are chasing their grandkids, while I’m sitting in a recliner complaining about my back pain, I’ll wish I did something about it.

Maybe if they could hook the elliptical up to a battery pack so my effort could save us a little on electricity?

He will die for lack of discipline, led astray by his own great folly. Proverbs 5:23